


Trashcans are not Windmills

by counterheist



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Coffeeshop AU, F/F, Genderbending, Not Waffles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-05
Updated: 2012-11-05
Packaged: 2017-11-18 00:54:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/counterheist/pseuds/counterheist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspiration comes in many forms, although the best, Antonia knows, is the form of a woman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trashcans are not Windmills

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cutthroatpixie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cutthroatpixie/gifts).



As she steps down the street her heels click a quick clip against the cobblestones, and she absently rifles through her purse for her scarf. First her hand hits a tube of lipstick, and then her keys, and then an onion, which she bought three days ago and keeps forgetting to remove, oh, and then three pieces of paper, one of which is a grocery list. The remaining two are actually bills. She should probably pay those sooner rather than later, but her wandering fingers brush them aside because for all that they are important they still aren’t her scarf. Next her fingers close around coins and two little bottles of lotion, liberated from one cheap hotel room or another, clothes pins and a spool of thread, sadly without any thread twisted on it, she’s going to have to buy more; until finally, _finally_ her thumb lands on the knotted edge of her favorite scarf, which, right, is what she was looking for in the first place! Triumphant, she pulls it up through the massive mess of all the other things she keeps with her – just in case, you know, you never know what you’re going to need, especially not in a city like this – before looping it lazily around her neck.

It’s a smart short thin thing, woven with little silver threads all the way through, combining seven different shades of red in an almost patchwork of color that ends up, from the right angle, from the right distance, turning into a large carnation floating on a flowing stream. She doesn’t remember where she got the scarf – it was a gift—but it’s warm and soft, and light to boot, and she usually keeps it with her. Today it gets to sit coiled around her neck—the place of honor!—like a cat or a calling card: Antonia is here, it shouts down the street, ready or not!

No one, Antonia finds, is ever really ready for anything. But that’s what makes life all the more fun. 

She turns the corner and the wind tugs at her scarf, wants it, but she and it push forward and soon they arrive at Antonia’s favorite place in the city. It’s her favorite for two reasons: one (1), Caffè Sabatini is here, and Marcello makes the best espresso she’s ever had, ever, regardless of how tired she’s been or what time of night it is or how much she hasn’t slept or what she ate before, because if she brushes her teeth and then drinks coffee usually she doesn’t like the way the tastes melt and flow in her mouth, but if Marcello makes it she’ll drink it. Everybody needs a place like that, a place to go to and get a decent cup of coffee no matter what else is happening everywhere else. The second reason, (2), is that Antonia really wants to work at Caffè Sabatini, which is kind of an extension of the first reason, really, because if Caffè Sabatini weren’t in Piazza della Scala then she wouldn’t like the square nearly as much, even though it has a pretty church in the corner and a lovely fountain that stays mostly clean, and more trash cans than she’s ever seen in one place in her whole life, maybe.

And then, of course, there is the woman at the balcony.

Which, realistically, is a third reason, three for two.

But Antonia is not terribly realistic, even on a good day. She is a dreamer, which is why she’s in this city to begin with, living on somebody else’s floor—thanks Bertl!—until she can make her own way. With a little hope and a little luck, and maybe a few more cups of Marcello’s best, Antonia can convince some great big fashion house to take her on as an apprentice, perhaps, but until that time she needs lots and lots of inspiration to feed her designs. And also hopefully a paycheck. And Caffè Sabatini has no end of the former, what with the way Marcello flirts with all the girls, even the ones who can’t really pay because they’re only passing through until they can reach the capital because there’s no work here, if everyone’s being honest with everyone else, hasn’t been any work for months, not that that’s going to stop Antonia. The latter’s the real core of the problem of why Antonia doesn’t have a job to tie herself over yet, but she figures persistence and love will win out in the end.

She really does love the place.

There’s the mirror that wraps around behind Marcello’s counter, all glass and polished brass from days gone by when everything was all glass and polished brass, when it wasn’t too busy being crystal and delicate gold leaf. There’s the steam from the various machines and—things, those magical miracle things that set the fizz and bubble and pop and every other verb that means A-W-A-K-E in the vocabulary of the chemicals jumping for joy across the connections in Antonia’s sleepy morning mind. Antonia better learn exactly what each and everything thing is called, and what it does, if she really wants to charm a job, even the tiniest one, off of Marcello. Her wallet really needs it.

There’s the pastries all lined up, neat, in five little rows until Marcello manages to pull in another warped tray from the back room, all covered in lovely little puffed things; fragile, and warm, and delicious on the inside.

There’s the table in the corner that Antonia never sits at, because it costs more, you know, to do that, and Bertl is starting to miss his beer money, and her Mamá’s goodbye gift is starting to run out, and every Euro counts, and eating outside lets her see more people as she sits, cross-legged, on the steps of that same big grey fountain with the pale blue heart someone drew on the side in the middle of January. The water froze over it one morning after the pipes clogged and let the whole fountain basin overflow down into the square, Antonia remembers the children trying to skate on the half-centimeter of slick. One or two of their scarves were red, then, too, and Antonia and hers had beamed at them for a job well done.

No one can really go wrong with red.

From her spot at the fountain, two panels away from the heart that’s still there, Antonia’s morning has a perfect view of the balcony above the café, and, well, that’s a bonus that is hard to top.

Even if she barely ever waves back.

Even though Antonia waves at her every day! From the very first day—the very _minute_ Antonia found herself walking down the winding streets, slowly, taking it all in, until her stomach and her fate decided it was time she met Marcello and his penchant for letting pretty girls have free drinks. The second Antonia saw the bright paint declaring Caffè Sabatini her bright red scarf tightened around her neck, as if to say, ‘Look! Look there!’, and her eyes were pulled by some anti-gravitational unavoidable force up and up and further up until they hit the second floor.

And her.

On reflex, Antonia waved, sunny and bright and really hungry, actually, the café called to her even if the balcony called to her more. So much more it was silly, really, and maybe a little embarrassing, if Antonia only would have thought about it. She, the woman at the balcony, didn’t look Antonia’s way; she faced the other way, back towards other end of the square and the river, with her hands slender around a slim grey mug and her neat hair tied back by a sharp green ribbon. Her profile was really lovely, probably the loveliest Antonia had ever seen—although she always says that, but this time she meant it!—and that very day Antonia didn’t design a whole new line of menswear modeled after Marcello’s quirky smile, no. That came later. She didn’t create three cornet-print ties in pastel blue, or a skirt as puffy and light as a chef’s white hat.

That day Antonia sketched out six bright green dresses with cool grey trim, and felt more fantastic than ever.

Since then she’s made it, the waving, part of her morning routine. Some days she gets nothing, not even a glance, and some days she gets lucky. A stray smile thrown from a lovely lady, Antonia thinks as she strides through the square, is more than enough to keep any woman going. Any lover? Knights and fighters of old had the right idea, proclaiming that true strength came from lady loves. The only part they messed up, Antonia nods to herself, was the part where only men benefitted!

“Watch out!” someone cries, from above, and Antonia has two seconds to stare up and wonder at the eyes of the object of her pure affection before she takes a rather painful tumble over the side of one of those multitude of trash cans the square practically grows out of its cobblestones.

Landing hurts, but it’s not anything serious. As far as Antonia can tell she’s not hurt, her purse hasn’t exploded its contents wide across the whole square, and nothing’s ripped or torn. Her scarf’s still with her. She winces and slowly stands, patting down her skirt and her hair, but before she can regain her footing completely there is someone fretting and grumbling at her. Two soft hands grab the purse from hers and snag the crook of Antonia’s arm.

“Are you too stupid to live or is this just a hobby of yours,” Antonia’s new friend ( _Rescuer? Thief?_ ) demands to know.

Antonia is all ready to reply that falling down is neither something she does often nor something she enjoys, just she gets bad cases of tunnel vision at inconvenient times, especially when lovely girls are involved. But then Antonia skips past the tunnel her mind is already in and realizes that the woman she waves to every morning has her by the arm and is quickly ushering her inside Caffè Sabatini as though Antonia has insulted her by not being there already.

“So this,” Antonia starts, blinking, “was all I had to do?”

The woman stares incredulously before dumping Antonia’s purse down on the counter as she disappears behind it. Marcello cocks his head to the side as she does so. Antonia wonders if this sort of thing is normal for Italians.

“Good morning, Antonia!” he smiles, before grinning down the way where the woman ducked out of Antonia’s sight, “And you’re up early, Lovi. I thought Nonno let you sleep in ‘til whenever you wanted!”

Lovi is a beautiful name, Antonia dazedly thinks. It might just be her new favorite.

“Nonno can go fuck himself,” Lovi mutters as she goes through the motions of making an espresso, as quick as Marcello ever does, “He’s not the boss of me.”

“Yes he is.”

“Well—that—,” and flushed are Antonia’s new favorite kind of cheek. As red as Antonia’s scarf, and then some. No one can go wrong with a color like red. “That’s not the point! Do your job, Marco!”

Marcello waves his hands in the air, sighs, and gives the ceiling a very significant look. Antonia can sympathize because even she finds women mysterious and she _is_ one. He grabs one of the pastries below the counter and folds it up in light paper, though, despite the whirlwind invasion to his sacred working space, and hands it over to Antonia. He has to nudge her hands a few times to catch her attention, because Lovi bites her lips while she works and Antonia thinks red bitten lips are her new favorite kind. Of lips.

They’re very inspiring.

“Here! I saw the tumble you just took. It’s on me.”

In fact, there are several blouses Antonia has in mind right now that she wants to bring to life. They’re all very airy, and light, and fast, except for in the chest area, where they have to be very snug. Antonia will need a model to get the lines right.

“Though what with the way Lovi ran through here when you did, I bet she’d like it to be on her—augh!”

Deep in her daydreams, Antonia completely misses the empty tray of cornets that sends Marcello ducking dramatically to the ground. She misses Lovi’s heaving breaths and lack of composure. She misses the cup placed in front of her. She does notice that Lovi is still biting her lips, which starts the entire not noticing anything else process off all over again.

Until Lovi speaks. “Are you… you don’t have any brain damage from that, do you?”

Marcello gurgles from the floor and pretends to die slowly.

Neither woman pays any attention to him. ( _Story of his life._ )

The fog fades from Antonia’s eyes. She’s silent for a moment or three, before responding, “will you be my muse?”

“I-wha—”

“Oh!” Suddenly the world begins to speed up, “My name is Antonia! You’re very pretty, you know. You’re the prettiest woman I’ve seen in—anywhere I’ve ever been.” Antonia notices the preening smile beginning to fight out from behind that scowl, and, oh, there’s the return of that favorite flush, “And I need a muse because I design clothes, or I want to, and I get inspired by a lot of things, but seeing you every day has inspired me the most and now that I’ve seen you close up nothing else is going to work anymore, so if you wouldn’t mind being my muse and maybe posing while I draw I would appreciate it so much and then we could get something to eat because I get really hungry after being creative, don’t you? It’s really hard work, designing, but it’ll pay off eventually, and when it does we can have dinner again, are you free tonight?”

Lovi gapes.

“Or do you have time for something later this afternoon? We could get waffles with lots of cream and I could get a better look at your face,” Antonia taps a finger against her lips, “For. Inspiration.”

“R-right,” Lovi arches an eyebrow. “Right.”

“So you will!?” There are other customers in the shop, and Marcello’s _still_ fake-dying on the floor, and Lovi’s shifting her weight and ( _sadly_ ) uncrossing her arms, and Antonia waits. She waits with a single-minded focus that’s gotten her everything else she’s waited long enough for. It all only takes time.

“Absolutely,” Antonia’s entire body soars with her heart and Lovi smirks, “not.”

“…not?”

“Not.”

“N…ot?”

With a sway of her hips, and, oh, that swish is something Antonia could design so much better; she could make the heavens fall from that singular sway. With a sway of her hips and a secretive smile, Lovina backs towards a staircase by the kitchen entrance and says, “be by the square tonight. My shift ends at ten.”

And then she leaves the room. 

Such a cruel mistress Antonia’s muse is.

So cruel, so beautiful, so… so _cruel_. Fate and Dulcinea have nothing on her, although she seems much, much nicer, and also receptive, and also Antonia’s not hallucinating anything at all, so maybe Dulcinea has nothing on her because she’s, obviously, nothing in the slightest like Dulcinea and instead she’s like somebody else who embodies all that is beautiful and young and bright and soft and warm in the world. Or maybe Antonia’s reading too much into this.

Of course not.

“Hey, Marcello… do you think I’m…”

It takes him ten minutes to answer her through his helpless snickering.

Later that night, as she asks Lovi— _Lovina_ , “Can I see you tomorrow morning too?”

And Lovina answers, drawing Antonia closer in, “You’d have to be blind not to.”

And Antonia replies, “I hope I don’t go b—.”

And Lovina cuts her off with a kiss that inspires nothing to do with clothes but their absence in Antonia’s mind, a motivation that fills her heart and then her hands, and then Lovina’s hands too. It’s at that point, when Lovina’s blouse is a puddle on the floor and Antonia’s scarf is a charming new addition to Lovina’s floor lamp, that Antonia’s racing mind thinks, “that snickering was uncalled for,” for a single, precise, split-second.

After that there is nothing but inspiration until morning.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know about that title. But, more importantly, HAPPY BIRTHDAY [ZIKE](cutthroatpixie.tumblr.com)!!! I hope you enjoyed your not waffles this year as well. Plot twist: they had not lesbians for breakfast.


End file.
